Coach Vereen named Kevin as the starter for Tuesday’s game. I expected it. We’d both given up a couple runs early, we’d both settled down, we’d both won, and I was the newcomer. As I left the field, Hadley trotted to catch up with me. “Be ready,” he said in a soft voice.
“Why? You heard Vereen.”
“Means nothing. We’re playing Eastside Catholic. They beat Kevin’s brains out last year. First sign of trouble, and Vereen will yank him.”
Before Tuesday’s game, Kevin and I warmed up side by side.
The ball was flowing out of my hand, but he was tight. You could see it in the jerky way he moved. When your muscles are tense, you can’t throw—Mr. Thurman had drilled that into me. Kevin’s fastball had nothing, and the more pitches he threw, the more nothing it got.
The umpire shouted, “Play ball!” Kevin looked over at me as if he’d just been called for the long walk to his execution. I gave him a pat on the back. “Go g-get ’em.”
He pursed his lips. “They’re toast.”
I found a place on the bench next to one of the parent volunteers who had the scorebook in his hands. “I could d-do that for you.”
He eyed me, unsure. “You know how to score?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Force out at second, second baseman to shortstop. Runner safe at first.”
“Fielder’s choice. F-Four-six.”
He handed me the scorebook. “It’s yours.”
Hadley had predicted that Kevin would struggle, and he was right. When the leadoff hitter smacked Kevin’s first pitch into center field for a single, my breathing grew more rapid. Ten feet from me, Coach Vereen clapped his hands. “Easy, Kevin. Don’t force it.”
The next hitter stepped in. Kevin pawed at the dirt, went into his stretch, delivered. From the bench I could tell that he was guiding the ball, afraid to let it fly. The bat zipped across the plate, sending a line shot over third base. By the time Evan Peterson tracked down the ball and fired it back to the infield, runners were at second and third. Coach Vereen strode toward me, snatched the scorebook from my hand. “Get out there and get ready. Now!”
As I hustled to the bullpen area by third base, Vereen walked slowly to the mound. He talked to Kevin for a while and then walked slowly back to the bench—buying time for me to get loose.
Whatever Vereen said didn’t help. Kevin’s first two pitches to Eastside’s three-hitter were way outside. The third pitch was a batting practice fastball, right down the middle. The hitter crushed it, sending a towering drive down the left field line. The ball landed far past where the chalk line ended, but the home plate umpire made his call loud and clear.
“Foul ball!”
The batter, who had already neared first, threw his head back and returned to home plate. Boos cascaded down from the Eastside Catholic fans.
Coach Vereen had seen enough. He held up four fingers to Kevin. The intentional walk loaded the bases with nobody out. Vereen looked out to me. I nodded to let him know I was ready.
A minute later Kevin handed me the ball. Coach Vereen put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s just the first inning. Don’t worry about a run or two scoring. Just keep the bleeding to a minimum. We’ll fight back.”
“Yes, s-sir,” I croaked, my throat as dry as dust.
It was the first time in my life that I’d been a relief pitcher, and it felt totally unfair. Eastside Catholic’s best hitter was stepping to the plate with runners on every base—and I hadn’t put a single one of them there. It was like having to take a test in a class you’d didn’t know you were in.
I took a deep breath and peered in. Hadley flashed the sign—fastball, low. The things Mr. Thurman had made me repeat and repeat and repeat? They all happened without me thinking about any of them.
Simple wind-up.
Shoulder and leg turn.
Drive toward home.
Release.
Then, when I needed her most, Lady Luck smiled on me. The batter swung, sending a one-hopper right to me. I fielded it cleanly and made a chest-high throw to home plate. Hadley stepped on the dish and then fired down to first for the double play.
The guys on our bench exploded, and so did the kids and parents up in the stands. The last voice I heard was Mr. Thurman’s. “Stay focused, Laz. One more batter.”
He was right: if you celebrate too early, you’ll wind up not celebrating at all. Against the five-hitter, I worked the ball in and out, up and down, finally fanning him on a fastball at the letters. As I walked off the field, more cheers rained down.
I sat on the bench with a towel draped over my head. I needed to stay in the zone. That’s why, as the rest of my team and all the parents and kids in the bleachers jumped to their feet when Ian drove a two-run double into right center, I remained seated, alone in my world.
Back on the mound, I didn’t worry about anything but the catcher’s glove. Hadley had me move the ball around, high and low, inside and out. I threw mainly straight fastballs, but sometimes I’d try a two-seamer. When I did, I lost some velocity, but the ball seemed to sink at the last minute. If the batter hit the pitch, it was on the ground.
Eastside Catholic’s pitcher, after his rocky first inning, matched me. Innings rolled by, but the score stayed the same. Laurelhurst 2, Eastside Catholic 0.
And then it was the seventh inning—Eastside’s last at bat. I saw one of the twins—I couldn’t tell which one—warming up along the sideline, but that was for show. Vereen wasn’t bringing him in.
This was my game.
No reason to hold back, I thought as the first hitter stepped up. But then I remembered that Mr. Thurman had told me that was the wrong way to think. I slowed everything down. The easier I threw, the faster my pitches would be.
The leadoff batter went down on three pitches, swinging late on each. I struck out the next hitter looking. With two out, everybody on the bench and in the stands rose and cheered. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I wanted to strike out the last guy, finish in style. The first pitch was a fastball inside. He tried to bunt, but instead hit a pop-up just behind home plate. Hadley was out of his crouch in a flash. I don’t know how he found the ball, but he did. At the last second he dived . . . and caught it.
It was such an unexpected end to the game that no one moved for a few seconds. Then the guys were on me, slapping me on the back, grinning as they danced me back to the dugout.
“Do you know what you just did?” Mr. Thurman said, coming over to the bench as I was packing up my gear. “Do you?”